


never let me go

by wunderbar



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Drama, Eventual Happy Ending, General Sadness oh my goodness, Heaven/Hell Concepts, It starts with death okay for those who haven't seen the movie, M/M, Suicide, What Dreams May Come AU, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2016-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:48:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4784567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wunderbar/pseuds/wunderbar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death comes for everyone, but Bard had not expected it so soon, especially after he and Thranduil have just barely survived the loss of their children. Nevertheless, he's guided to his Heaven, which feels particularly empty without Thranduil with him. Bard is content to wait, but when Thranduil dies before his time and is sent to a place Bard cannot follow, Bard becomes more than determined to rescue him, despite the costs and consequences.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The beginning of this story, as some stories go, is at the end.

Bard Oropherion (formerly Bowman), forty-two, pediatrician, husband, and (once-) father, dies because of an upturned school bus.

He isn’t really supposed to be there; it isn’t his route. He’s only there because he left the house late and he now had to take a shortcut. He left the house late because Thranduil is sick in bed and he was having second thoughts about coming in. In the end, his husband told him to stop buggering around and go to work.

(“Go cure some kids,” Thranduil says, eyes fever-bright and his cheeks flushed red. “I’ll call if I need anything.”)

He’s thinking about this as he leaves his car running, sees the large, yellow bus that’s fallen on its side on Ashby Avenue, its belly black and sparking and leaking gas onto the street. It’s a massive pile-up of cars and SUVs, and dozens of people are leaving their cars dazedly to sit on the sidewalk, rivulets of blood streaming down their faces. Bard yells at them to get as far away from the crash site as they can. His attention is on the school bus, where he can hear children crying and yelling for their parents.

There are other adults who have gone ahead of him to help, but there are still children trapped and it’s as if he’s seeing his own children die. They’re middle-schoolers, close to the age Legolas had been, and they reach out their arms towards him as he clambers onto the top and reaches in through the broken windows to pull them out to safety.

“Don’t cry now,” he says, trying to keep his voice calm, although the stench of gas is getting stronger and he knows he no longer has the luxury of time. “It’s all right, it’ll be okay.”

He manages to get three out of the four students left inside out. The last one is injured with a broken arm. She’s crying because she can’t hold her arm up, and when she looks at Bard with tear-streaked cheeks, he can barely breathe because he remembers Tilda.

“Darlin’, I’m going to come in there, all right? I’m going to come in there and lift you up so don’t be scared, okay?”

When he jumps down into the cabin, the girl is cradling her arm to her chest, and Bard does a quick assessment. Possible radial and wrist fracture, 10 weeks in a cast. Bruised forehead, bloody nose. He wipes her tears with his sleeve before he tells her he’s going to lift her up.

“We’re going to die here,” the girl says, but Bard is having none of it. He knows the pain of losing a child, and another parent is not going to feel it on his account, not when he has the chance to make it right.

“We’re not, sweetheart. You see that ledge there? I’m going to lift you up and you climb up onto the ledge. Then you run away as far as you can.”

“But what if I can’t?”

“Yes you can. You can do it.”

It takes a minute, maybe less, because Bard boosts the girl up as high as he can so she doesn’t have to use much of her strength to get out. When she’s crouched down on the side, Bard tells her to run, and she does after giving him another look that breaks his heart.

There are still people yelling as he pulls himself up onto the ledge, a general roar as the crowds are told to step back from the site. He can hear nothing more but the blood pounding in his ears and the breaths in his chest as he hurriedly makes his way down and away from the crash.

When the bus explodes in a ball of glass, fire, and metal seconds after he lands on his feet on the asphalt, Bard doesn’t even realize it. Instead he’s flying, like a bird with a broken wing over a black sea. There’s no pain, at least not yet, and there’s only one thought in his head before he lands in an ungraceful heap by the side of the road.

 _I love you,_ he thinks instinctively, sending out a mental shout into the void in the hopes that someone is listening.

(Miles away, in Marin County, Thranduil stirs awake amidst rumpled sheets, mumbling “I love you too” before he realizes he’s talking to an empty room.)

Bard is dead before he hits the ground.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this work has been niggling at the back of my mind for a while. I was (still am) a big Robin Williams fan growing up and What Dreams May Come is one of my favorite movies. I'm sorry for introducing more angst to this already angst-filled fandom (especially this particular ship), but this AU is something I've wanted to write for a long time. 
> 
> I've also not included the two other kids because, if you've seen the movie, the kids DO die, and I couldn't bear killing FOUR children, especially if they were Bard and Thranduil's. It's just too much.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard is in the In-Between, and it's not making things any easier.

_Bard?_  
  
_Yes?_

_Can you hear me?_

_Of course I can hear you, Chief._

_Can you see me though?_

A blur of lights and color and movement. Bard feels as though he’s there but not really there. He feels as though he’s air and solid mass at the same time, and sounds are coming towards him like the loud whooshing in a great tunnel.

_I don’t know. What are you supposed to look like?_

_Let’s try again._

_You remember what happened this morning?_

_A lot happened this morning, Chief._

_Okay, start from the beginning then._

There’s another blur of movement, and Bard is suddenly back in his house.

_Hey, how’d you do that?_

_You brought us here, Bard, not me._

He walks through the familiar entryway and nearly starts when he sees himself in the kitchen.

_That’s me!_

_This is a memory, Bard. It’s not real. Not anymore._

He doesn’t have to wait and see what the other Bard does next; he already knows what’s going to happen, as these were things that just occurred this morning. The other Bard is leaning against the sun-warmed counter, skimming yesterday’s paper as he waits for the kettle to boil. He eats toast and jam over the sink and then checks the herbs on the windowsill. He hums as he fills up the little pewter pitcher that used to be Tilda’s and waters them one by one. When he heads back upstairs, Bard mirrors his every move, skipping every other step as Legolas used to do, and then brushing his fingertips across the photograph of the children when he passes by it in the landing.

_You do that every day?_

_Every single time._

“Thran.”

His heart (if he even still has one) clenches when he sees the other Bard approaching the bed. Thranduil is still asleep and nursing a fever. He watches as the other Bard uncovers his husband from the duvet and feels his forehead. Bard can still imagine the heat of Thranduil’s skin against his own palm.

“Feeling better? Or worse?”

“Ugh,” Thranduil says and covers his head. Bard knows the lines by heart, as if this morning’s conversation came from a manuscript, only delivered by the world's two worst actors.

“Keep your head exposed. You’ll make the fever worse.” He watches as the other Bard sits and runs a hand through Thranduil’s hair to clear it from his face.

“It’s too cold.”

In the soft faded light of their bedroom, Bard can just barely make out his husband. Underneath thick, tousled blond hair, Thranduil’s eyes are bright and glassy-eyed, as if still awakening from a dream. He wishes now that he could touch him. He feels quite foolish when a surge of jealousy rushes through him as he watches the other Bard place the back of his fingers against Thranduil’s cheek, before reaching for the digital thermometer he always keeps in each of their bedside table drawers.

_I see you’re the jealous type._

_Don’t be stupid._

_I’m not the one being jealous of himself._

“102.4.” Bard hears his own voice saying the reading out loud. “No school for you.”

“Funny,” Thranduil says, then covers his eyes with his arm. “I hate the Fall.”

Bard sees his other self hesitate, knows that he’s already thinking of skipping work and lying in bed with Thranduil all day. He knows his other self is thinking of getting pho from Thranduil’s favorite place for lunch and then spending the rest of the afternoon watching reruns of Daredevil and Nigella Feasts. It’s only now that he realizes how easily his emotions show on his face, because his husband easily catches on.

“Don’t even think about it.”

“About what?”

“I’ll be fine, love. Don’t skip work on my account. There are other people who need you more.”

He wishes now that he hadn’t listened. That he could have told Thranduil that, no, there actually aren’t, because there are no important appointments today, just several kids with ear infections that he can always have another doctor cover for.

_But you do know that if you hadn’t gone, those kids in the bus would have died right?_

_There were other people on the scene._

_But you were the fastest and thought the quickest. No one else would have been foolish enough to get in there and pull that one girl out._

_And where did that leave me?_

He watches now as Thranduil nudges him off the bed, then hears as he says those words: “Go cure some kids. I’ll call if I need anything.”

_He wanted you there, though._

_I know, Chief. But he’s selfless to a fault. After the kids…well. He really holds my job in high regard._

_You know you couldn’t have done anything that day._

_I know._

_But you still feel you could have._

There’s a fist in Bard’s throat that seems to have permanently lodged itself there since their children died. He counts to five in his head, waits until the fist unfurls, spreads the thick, slow grief throughout his body until it fades away.

_How can I still feel? I’m…gone, aren’t I?_

_If you mean by ‘gone’ you mean ‘dead’, then yes. And this is all in your head._

_Holy sh--!_

_Language!_

_But…my husband!_

_He’s the reason you haven’t left yet. You’re anchoring himself to where he is._

_No, you don’t understand! He can’t…he can’t lose me! We’ve already lost--_

_The children? Yes._

Bard wants to scream, but there’s no sound coming from his throat. The scene in front of him seems to have stilled: Thranduil leaning back on the mound of pillows, already half-asleep, one hand on his chest and the other beside his head on the pillow, the other Bard smiling at him affectionately.

_NO!_

_Yes, Bard. I am sorry._

  
The scene shifts again.

He’s now staring at a breakfast scene. The dining room downstairs, he realizes, surrounded by Thranduil’s paintings, sunlight streaming in from the large windows flooding the room in a golden light. The dining room table is littered with various books and papers, and seated at the end of it is Legolas. If he was still breathing Bard is sure he would have gasped.

_Legolas!_

_He can’t hear you, Bard. This is a memory._

He knows. He knows this is a memory, because this is the same one he’s replayed in his head a thousand times over the past four years. Now, Legolas is inches away from him, just a few weeks shy of thirteen years old, wearing a white jersey polo shirt and jeans, his feet white and barefoot against the Spanish tiles. Bard is so close that he can count every freckle dusting Legolas’ nose, and if he still could draw breath, blow the soft golden strands of his hair out of place. Legolas is focused on a model plane he’s holding in one hand, while the other is holding a fine-tipped brush, his tongue peeking out and resting against his bottom lip. It’s a habit he’s had since early childhood, and Bard can’t help but feel a rush of fondness.

He reaches out to touch him.

_Don’t, Bard._

_It’s my son!_

_It is_ not _and you know it. You’re bringing up this memory._

He doesn’t draw back his hand, but he doesn’t move it up further, either. Legolas is busy with his plane, his breakfast of eggs, toast, and fruit pushed to the side.

“Legolas,” he hears his voice say, although he knows it’s not _him,_ not this version at least. “Quit fooling around now and eat your breakfast.”

He’s almost surprised to see himself from four years ago: the other Bard crosses from the kitchen doorway, looking younger yet sterner. His hair is also slightly longer, and he’s wearing a gingham Oxford shirt over dark jeans and socked feet. He’s holding Legolas’ shoes.

“Put your shoes on then too. C’mon now.”

Legolas assesses him with a look that’s a hundred percent Thranduil’s and it causes Bard’s chest to tighten. His boy was so beautiful.

“Da, _you_ haven’t even put on your shoes.”

Bard feels himself laughing, although there’s no physical sound. He can feel his chest vibrating and his lungs expanding and contracting in hiccupped breaths. The other Bard is also amused, his expression now relaxing.

“Touche, my love. Now, please eat something and then put on your shoes before your Ada comes or we’ll _both_ be in trouble.”

Legolas complies, of course. He was always an easy child. He carefully places his model plane on a sheet of newspaper he’s already laid out and gets a piece of toast from his waiting plate, not paying any mind to his paint-stained fingers. Like father, like son indeed.

“Da, you said you’d talk to Ada, right?”  
  
“Right.”

_About what?_

_Archery. Legolas was afraid Thranduil might say no because he was already in other extra-curriculars._

_Like what?_

_He had art classes outside of school, and then he had Band at school with the other kids._

_Was he any good?_

_He was terrific at Art but bloody terrible at music, but we always told him he was great. That saxophone was an instrument of torture._

He doesn’t really hear anything, but he is definite his companion, whoever and whatever it is, is laughing.

“I promise to talk to Ada and convince him to the very best of my ability, but you have to promise me that your grades aren’t going to slip if we let you join the Archery team. No monkey business, okay?”  
  
Legolas smiles at the other Bard, his eyes ocean-blue and sparkling. He has crumbs on cheeks that have yet to lose their baby fat. He raises his pinky and offers it to the other Bard.

“Deal, Da.”

“I mean it. The minute those grades go down, you’re outta there.”

“Pinky swear!” Legolas laughs, and the sound takes Bard so much by surprise that there are suddenly tears in his eyes, even though seconds ago he wasn’t even sure he even still has eyes at all. The other Bard, on the other hand, hooks Legolas’ pinky with his own.

The moment of father-son camaraderie is quickly broken by the sound of Tilda’s squeals from the inner part of the house, getting louder and louder until she suddenly bursts into the dining room, already dressed but her hair still dripping wet from the shower. Right on her heels is Thranduil, his blue chambray shirt and jeans wet in some portions where Tilda probably rubbed her head against.

Seeing his husband from before is like seeing a being from an entirely different universe, and Bard is overcome with the sudden overwhelming feeling of simultaneously laughing and crying. He’s forgotten how Thranduil’s hair had been longer, the blonde locks a wavy, floppy mess on his head, and the back of it hugging the back of his neck, the ends already touching his shirt collar. His smile is the widest Bard has seen in the longest time, and the sound of his laughter as he picks their giggling daughter up sounds so _happy_ Bard feels like he’s splitting in two.

“Cheeky monkey,” Thranduil says, still holding Tilda. “Now I have to change!”

“No you don’t, Ada, you look perfect!”

_Tilda always knew the right words to say. She had the both of us around both her little fingers. We were complete suckers._

_Do you remember what happens next?_

He does. He watches as the other Bard gets a hold of their daughter and sits her down at the table so he can towel-dry her hair. Thranduil fetches her a bowl of fruit and as he passes by their son, kisses the crown of Legolas’ head.

“Ada, why can’t you drive us today? You _said_ you’d drive us today.”

“I have to go to the gallery, sweetheart.” Thranduil says. Bard watches as he prepares both the children’s’ lunches: tomato-corn salad prepped the night before, a cup of yogurt and a frozen peach each.

_We should have let them eat more cheeseburgers. And ice cream. And French fries. And pizza. And all that other junk kids like._

_I don’t know, they would have complained if they hadn’t liked it._

_Legolas did, plenty of times. But we were having none of it. Tilda ate anything, as long as it didn’t have eyes on it. If I had known…_

He doesn’t finish his sentence because there are a thousand more like it waiting, having been shoved in the deepest, darkest recesses of his heart the past four years. He thinks of the million other moments Legolas could have smiled rather than frowned, when Tilda could have laughed rather than cried.

_I could have been a better parent._

_I’m sure you did your best._

He thinks of the countless moments he will never have now with either of them, and the countless more lost that was supposed to have been shared with Thranduil.

_It doesn’t do to dwell on what could have been, Bard. It will make it harder._

Breakfast is not yet finished but everyone is running late. The nanny, Maricel, comes bustling in, dropping that week’s worth of farmer’s market fruits and vegetables on the counter. Legolas stuffs two strawberries into his mouth before standing up. Bard finishes braiding Tilda’s hair.

“C’mon, kiddos, up and at ‘em.” Maricel had been with them since Legolas was born and has been shuttling the kids around since babyhood.

_She died too, you know. It wasn’t her fault. The other driver was drunk and had run a red light. He’s in prison now._

“Ada, please!” Tilda tries one final time to persuade Thranduil, giving him a look Bard knows she reserves only when she’s truly desperate. Her green eyes are shining with unshed tears and there’s nothing Bard would not give for him to have the ability to wipe her tears away. Then-Thranduil knows it all too well; he stands his ground but does resolve to give her a kiss on the forehead.

“I promise I will pick you and Legolas up after school.”

“But—”

“That’s quite enough now,” Bard watches as his other self picks up their daughter to escort her to the car, rubbing her face with his sleeve. Thranduil gives the other Bard a grateful look hands him both the kids’ lunchboxes as Legolas gives him a kiss goodbye. They had long ago made the deal that when one is playing Bad Cop, the other must also follow the lead to a certain extent. “Bye to Ada now, Tilda.”

The minivan is already warmed up and waiting in the driveway. It’s a beautiful spring day and the ground is carpeted in fallen wisteria, the flowers fluttering up and over the dark asphalt each time a breeze blows. It looks as if a portion of the sky has fallen to the ground.

Tilda looks upset as she’s getting buckled in. Bard is listening as his other self attempts to gain control of the situation. He knows what he’s about to say and if he could literally kick himself he really would.

“Tilda, you’re a big girl now, all right? No more of this drama. When Ada or Da says something, that’s it, okay? Ada will pick you up later. No need to get all upset.”

“Yeah, Tild,” Legolas chimes in from the back. “Maybe later we can get him to buy us frozen yogurt.”

Tilda lightens up at this. The other Bard hands them both their lunchboxes.

“Ada will probably say yes if you both finish your lunches _without_ trading them for anything unhealthy.” Bard sees as the other Bard leans forward and kisses both children. “I’ll see you guys later. I love you.”

The sound seems to fade out and Bard watches as the minivan starts driving away, the drooping wisteria from the trees brushing against its bright red roof. The other Bard is in the middle of the road, waving as the minivan gets farther and farther away. Just before the vehicle reaches the end of the road, the scene stops.

_I don’t like remembering this part. The accident happened not even ten minutes later. They wouldn’t let me help because I was family. You don’t even think these things will happen, you know? Until it does._

_We don’t have to stay in this memory, Bard._

_Yeah? Well sorry I find it hard to move on from my children’s’ deaths, Chief._

_You don’t even have to stay_ here.

 _Here? What even_ is _here? Why does the concept of ‘here’ even exist? I thought I was dead!_

The air seems to ripple around him. It sounds very much like a sigh.

_You’re keeping yourself here. Let me show you why._

_I don’t need you to fu—_

The scene blurs and fades, and Bard is plunged into darkness.  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much death. I am sorry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard learns the ropes, but also realizes there are choices he has to make.

They’re back on Ashby Avenue. The school bus is nothing more now than a charred twisted mess, the flames still being put out by firemen who have arrived on the scene. Bard is walking amongst the chaos, looking but not really seeing. There are hundreds of people hurt and they’ve now blocked off the I-80. Dozens of kids are crying, seated to the side or being attended to by paramedics, their faces covered in soot and blood, but all minor injuries as Bard can tell.  
  
_Why did you bring me here, Chief?_  
  
_You need to see. This is your reality now, Bard._  
  
His companion is still a series of blurred lights and colors, like a smudged painting. He can see bits and pieces of detail however – a pointed nose, a forehead, a large hand – before it shifts again in movement.

 _How come I still can’t see you clearly?_  
  
Because you don’t want to yet. It’ll come in time. 

The little girl he had rescued is already being seen to by a paramedic. She’s on a gurney near an ambulance, her hair a rich rusty red fanned out against the white starched sheets. There are dried tear tracks on her cheeks, and her eyes are wide as she’s trying to tell the paramedic something, perhaps details on the accident. She must be no more than nine or ten, and Bard’s heart goes out to her. She must be so scared.

_She has a full life ahead of her, don’t worry._

_That’s good to know._

_Her name is Tauriel. It wasn’t her time. She’s telling them that there was a man who rescued her. A hero._

It takes him a bit more time before he finds his own body. The explosion had thrown him a good fifty meters away, onto a patch of dried, dead grass. He stares at his body, lying there in a crumpled heap. His navy sweater is dark in patches where blood is seeping through, his grey jeans stained beyond belief. There’s a hilarious moment when he thinks Thranduil is going to kill him because the sweater was new, barely a week old, and the jeans had cost a fortune.

_Your husband is not that shallow, I would think._

_Jesus, Chief, can’t a man have some privacy?_

_Not if you keep announcing all your thoughts. It’s not like I_ want _to hear them, but you insist. Your walls are down. It’s natural; you’ll learn to control it eventually. And I’m not Jesus._

_Could have fooled me._

It seems like an eternity before Bard sees that the paramedics have picked up on his body’s location. They rush to him in a whirl of voices and colors, turning his body over on his back and checking all his vitals. Bard doesn’t need someone to tell him he’s dead, the way his body looks. A shudder passes through him as he disconnects enough to assess himself with a critical eye; his injuries were plentiful and fatal.

_You look like you’re sleeping._

_Lot of blood for someone who’s sleeping. Tymphanic membrane rupturing, possible multiple organ failure and trauma, possible brain damage. If I’d lived I’d be a vegetable._

Two beats, and Bard suddenly feels like throwing up.

_Oh God, Thran. Oh God._

He feels a tug, as if he’s tied to an invisible rope and someone is gently pulling on it, like a child asking for attention.

_C’mon, Bard._

 

They’re at a church. St. Patrick’s on Mission Street. Where they had said goodbye to the children.

_I don’t want to see this again._

_This isn’t the one for your children, Bard._

Bard looks, and sure enough there isn’t. Instead of two coffins, there is one by the altar. The casket is closed but surrounded by flower wreaths. There are also dozens of childish drawings set up on stands by the pews.

Bard sees the red-headed girl, Tauriel. Her arm is now in a cast and she’s seated three rows down the altar. She is no longer crying but her face reflects a sadness beyond her years. There’s at least a dozen other children with her, as well as adults he assumes are their parents. Apart from them, there are other people, dozens of others, that Bard doesn’t recognize. They’re all shrouded in black, apparently mourning.

_Who are all these people? I recognize some of the kids._

_They’re all the people who survived the accident. You were the only one who died. You were the last to clear the site._

_…Shit._

Bard moves through the crowd, feeling anxious as he scans through the sea of faces. Slowly, recognition dawns on him for most of them: his colleagues at the hospital, old university classmates, neighbors, childhood friends, cousins, aunts, uncles, his sister, his brother, then…  
  
Thranduil is at the very front pew, the space between him and Bard’s brother like a yawning chasm. He’s sitting, statue-like, his gaze straight ahead but his mouth set in a thin, white line. Thranduil’s eyes are behind sunglasses despite being inside a church, and his face, normally already quite pale, is leeched of all color, the shadows flitting across the planes and dips of his features and making him look unnaturally gaunt. His hair is also the shortest Bard has ever seen and is harshly combed back, making the sharp angles on his face stand out all the more. The only color on him is the sprig of wisteria in the breast pocket of his coat. Bard realizes it matches the lone wreath that’s been placed on his casket.

To the untrained eye, Thranduil looks the epitome of stoical, but Bard can see the how he flexes and unflexes his long fingers, how his jaw is clenching at each heartfelt eulogy, how Thranduil seems to be holding his breath every other chance he gets, as if the very action is enough to hold him together, even if only for the moment.

It’s strange now, seeing the aftermath of death on the ones you leave behind. Bard’s always thought he would be the one left, being the boring old doctor. Thranduil’s career as an artist has sent him to even the strangest corners of the world to conduct exhibits, galleries, shows. Having the children only slowed him down enough to make sure bedtime stories were still told even from half a world away, and then after the children were gone, it wasn’t very hard for Thranduil to pick up where he left off, the usually discerning public understandable enough to give him space and nix the hard questions, and of course Bard had been there, always.

Until now, when he cannot any longer.

He approaches his husband, wanting nothing more in the world than to grasp his hand to provide comfort, as he always has. The universe feels entirely wrong. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. This isn’t how it’s supposed to end.

 _I_ have _to do something! I have to reach out to him somehow._

He puts his hand out, the same way he did with Legolas, but this time, he attempts the connection, wills with all of his strength for even a second of direct physical contact, imagining atoms and molecules banding together to create an impenetrable surface, before placing his hand on top of Thranduil’s to still its trembling. Air meets air right away, as though he’s attempting to touch a hologram.

 _Bard, this isn’t_ Ghost. _It just doesn’t work that way. I’m sorry. You can’t touch him. He can’t hear you. You have to let him go._

He feels the tug again, more insistently this time. The church melts in a sea of color and movement, and Bard is once more back at their house. This time, it’s filled with people. Numbers of them are milling in doorways, hallways, and rooms, their black clothes like blocks of shadows against the white walls. Bard turns to his companion, still an indistinguishable flesh-colored blur.

_Chief, what did you do?_

_I’m trying to save you from yourself, but you’re the one who’s controlling where to go. You see what you want to see._

He just wants to see Thranduil. He wants to get a message across somehow. Make a book fall of the shelf, flip a light switch, steal the car keys…anything.

_You’re not a corporeal being, Bard. You have no physical means to achieve what you want._

_Did no one tell you it’s rude to read anyone’s thoughts?_

He doesn’t know how he knows, but his companion is definitely rolling its eyes at him…if it even has eyes.

The room seems to shift without him moving, and he finds himself deeper into the house, in his closed study, where the crowd has noticeably thinned and only a certain circle of friends seem to have been allowed in. He recognizes all of them: Beorn and Gloin from the hospital; Arwen and her husband Aragorn; Gandalf; Haldir. Thranduil is lying on his side on the leather couch, his head resting on Eowyn’s lap. His eyes are closed and red-rimmed, but Bard knows he’s truly asleep.

“We should send everyone home already,” Arwen says softly. Aragorn and Gloin nod in agreement. Night has fallen and a fire is hissing and crackling in the hearth. Eowyn is tracing Thranduil’s features lightly with her fingertips. Thranduil doesn’t even stir.

“Has he eaten?” Haldir asks. Eowyn shakes her head. Her husband, Faramir, standing by Bard’s eternally messy desk, sighs heavily. Gandalf, sitting on the armchair, looks as though he’s aged a decade.

“What are we going to do?” Eowyn asks, and Bard can hear the genuine worry in her voice.

“We can’t leave him alone. Not here, in this empty house.” Beorn says, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “We all know what happened when the children…” Seven pairs of eyes suddenly glance towards his direction as if daring him to say more, and Beorn sighs. “All I’m saying is the next few months are going to be pretty hard, and I want him to be cared for.”

_What happened after the children died?_

_Not really a good time, Chief._

“He can stay at our place if he wants,” Aragorn offers. They live in Portland, in a large modern cabin in the woods. They used to visit there a lot with the children, but haven’t done so the past few years. Bard doesn’t realize how much he’s missed it until Aragorn mentions it. They used to have a lot of fun there. “He can keep painting there…and it’s nice and peaceful.”

“If anything, Faramir and I can also stay on until the end of the week,” Eowyn and Faramir live in Berkeley and are (were) the children’s godparents. “And we can check up on him after that. I don’t think he’s going to want to leave the house at this time.”

Bard approaches the group, intent on making his presence known this time. Their friends are still discussing over how to best keep an eye on his husband as if he were a child. He knows Thranduil would hate it, being constantly watched and fussed over, like an insect in a glass cage, but even he has to admit it may be a necessary step.

He reaches out to touch Thranduil again, his finger slightly extended above his husband’s brow. He glides a finger down Thranduil’s forehead, not really touching him this time, but close enough so that if he were alive, he’d be able to feel the other’s warmth on his skin. To his surprise, seconds later, Thranduil’s eyes snap open as if startled awake, and for a few moments, stares straight at Bard as if seeing him.

“Bard?” Thranduil’s voice is low and gravelly, as if he had screamed himself raw. His eyes are glazed over with confusion. Bard stands still, not wanting Thranduil to _unsee_ him, in case.

_He can’t see you._

_But he just said my name! I woke him up!_

“Bard?” Thranduil’s voice is louder now, and he sits up, prompting everyone else to direct their attention towards him. Bard watches as Thranduil looks left, then right, looking all at once desperate but hopeful. Eowyn and Arwen sit on either side of him, touching his back and offering whispered words of comfort.

“Thranduil,” Gandalf says. He leans forward from his spot, places a hand on Thranduil’s knee. “It’s all right, you’re safe here.”

“I…I…” Thranduil looks completely flustered. His gaze passes once more over where Bard is, but he shakes his head. “I thought he was here. He was leaning over me. I woke up and…he wasn’t. It was just…” Bard can see exactly when Thranduil thinks it must have just been a dream and that this is the reality now. The light from his eyes seem to flicker before going out completely. He hangs his head and covers his face with his hands. Nobody seems to know what to say. Bard himself is stunned.

 _He saw me!_  
  


_He dreamt you. It doesn’t mean he saw you for real. It happens sometimes. When the pain is too raw and the wounds are so deep, both your walls are down. It’s like suddenly being able to tune in to a radio signal but only to lose it again the next day. It doesn’t last._

_You could have told me!_

_What good would it have done? You’ll only hurt him, Bard._

He remembers the days and weeks following the children’s deaths, when he would sometimes hear someone calling out “Da!” in Legolas’ or Tilda’s voices, and he’d turn around and be met with an empty room. He remembers the stabbing hurt he felt every single time he’d remember that there’s no longer anyone left to call him ‘Da’, the never-ending cycle of being okay one day and being wholly swallowed by sorrow the next given random triggers: Legolas’ sock in the dryer, Tilda’s barrettes on their dresser, or even the sound of the Tom and Jerry show coming on.

_Does that mean it’s possible the children may have tried to reach out to us too?_

The air ripples. Bard feels his companion smiling. _They may have. Or you may have been dreaming._

The scene before him slows to a stop, then Bard feels himself pulled to a different plane once more.

 

 

 

 

 

_You’re a storm of emotions and thoughts._

_I can’t leave him._

_Let’s parse it then: Tell me about your children._

_Legolas was born from a previous relationship. His mother didn’t want children, and Thranduil made her give up all her rights to him when he was born. Legolas was still a baby when Thranduil and I met. Tilda was born from a surrogate. We were happy._

_Why did you choose that story to tell me?_

_Seems everyone always wants an explanation how two men can have two kids. The answer is pretty much straight-to-the-point: either you make ‘em, or someone else does the making for you. Nevertheless, they were my kids and I love them._

_You miss them?_  
  
Not a day goes by I don’t think about them, Chief. 

_Take us to a memory then._

They’re arguing in the basement, so the kids won’t hear.

“He punched another boy, Bard, and broke his teeth!” Thranduil says, his jaw clenched in frustration.

Bard tries hard not to laugh. “He probably deserved it.”

“Even if he did, this incorrigible behavior cannot go on! He wouldn’t even tell me why he did it. You know that face he pulls when you know he hears you but he’s not listening? That was the only answer I got from him from the time we were at the Headmaster’s office until we got home.”

Bard has to resist telling his husband that _he_ pulls that face all the time, especially when he’s being interrupted while painting. “And did you ground him?”

“No Art materials, no electronics, no gadgets, no seeing friends, no going outside for a _month,_ unless he tells us what’s going on.” This is the fourth time in the school year that Legolas has been brought to the Headmaster’s office for fighting, and even Bard is growing concerned. “I’m certain we never raised him to be a little hooligan.”

“I’ll talk to him. I’ll take him out for it, is that ok?”  
  
“As long as you get an answer from him, you can take him to Disneyland for all that I care.”  
  
“Really?”

“No, Bard.”

 

 

 

 

 

_Where did you end up going?_

_Took him to Muir Woods. Legolas loves the woods. He lightened up in no time._

Bard leans against one of the ancient trees, panting heavily following the high-speed chase through the trail that he and Legolas have just done.

“’M getting too old for this,” he says, closing his eyes and breathing in the fresh forest air. It rained that afternoon and a thin fog is curling in and out of the trees’ branches. The scent of redwood and loam invigorates him, reminds him that some of the very best things in life are free.

“You’re lying, Da, you’ll do this til you’re a hundred.”

“Probably,” Bard smiles and then turns towards his son. Legolas is watching the milk-white sunlight filtering in through the leaves, a smile on his face. It’s the first smile he’s seen on him in days, and Bard is hesitant to ruin the moment. “Leaf.”

“Hm?”  
  
“I heard Ada laid out the law the other day.”

The mood suddenly shifts, and Legolas drops his head, refusing to meet his eyes. Bard nudges his shoulder.

“What’s going on, huh? You know I didn’t give you those boxing lessons so Ada can have my head for it.”

Legolas doesn’t answer, so Bard cups the back of his head with his palm, turning it so at least his son would meet his gaze.

“Hey, look at me.”

He’s surprised that when Legolas does look, his eyes have a stubborn, defiant sheen in them. This was a boy who did not regret his actions.

“It’s that kid, Adam Wallace, and his friends, Da.”  
  
“And?”

“He said you and Ada were disgusting freaks and that I should run away and change my name and never look back.” Legolas’ hands are curling into fists, twin red circles enflaming his cheeks. “He wouldn’t shut up about it. I told him to take it back and he wouldn’t.”

“And so you punched him in the mouth. And all those other times you were called in…?”

“Yes.” Legolas’ breath is heaving, and then his mask breaks. Bard sees as a tear leaks out of the corner of his eye, but Legolas brushes it off with his sleeve defiantly. Personally, Bard is impressed; Legolas is still a head shorter than the rest of the boys in his grade. He knows Adam Wallace, has been treating that boy since he was a babe, and also knows he’s recently shot up by half a foot. Despite him trying to remain neutral about the situation, a bitter taste creeps into his mouth.

“I’m not sorry I did it, Da, I really am not. But Ada would be so mad. I punched Adam and I told him if he calls you or Ada freaks again, I’m not afraid to punch him again.”

_Did Thranduil ever find out?_

_Why Legolas did it? Yes, but we carried out his punishment still. We had to pay for the boy’s dental work after all, but it was all worth it._

Bard hugs his son, feels his warm, lithe body against his, wishing for Legolas’ heart to never grow cold to other people’s plights, for his courage to never falter especially in times others would need him most.

_I was so proud of him. Still am._

 

_Tell me about Tilda._

_Small, but feisty. Her favorite book was Paper Bag Princess. She wanted to be a manicurist when she grew up. Thranduil wasn’t impressed._

_He loved her a lot._

_Dads and daughters, what can I say? We’re utter fools._

Tilda crept into their bed in the middle of the night, even when she knows she isn’t supposed to. Bard has a vague recollection of a rush of cold brushing against his feet as the covers were pulled back in at some point in the night, and a small, wriggling body wedging itself between him and Thranduil.

“Tild,” Bard groans hours later as a small finger pushes down on the end of his nose, followed by breathy little giggles. “I thought we told you you’re getting too big to stay in Ada and Da’s bed?”  
  
His daughter shakes her head. She’s already awake and lying on her stomach, her head resting sideways on Bard’s arm.

“Never, Da.”

Bard kisses her head and attempts to flatten her bird’s nest of hair. “Lie still then and let Da and Ada sleep.”

“Okay.”

A beat, then Bard wakes again to a finger on his nose.  
  
“Tild.”

“Da, how many bones are there in your body?”

He figures he can go for the truth, or the parenting version of the answer. He chooses what he hopes would stop his daughter’s Saturday Morning Q&A. “Too many, Tild. And I’ve broken a lot of them.”

He snuggles into the duvet and pulls Tilda closer. She used to like cuddles a lot. Bard is hoping today is not the day when she suddenly changes her mind and decides she’s too grown up for it. Thankfully, Tilda melts into his hold, resting her forehead against his chest while humming an invented version of Frere Jacques. Bard almost bursts out laughing at her lyrics.

“Honey, it’s ‘Frere Jacques’, not Fairy Jackals.”

“I know.”  
  
“Oh you do, huh?”

“I was trying to see if you knew.”

The lump on the other side of the bed shifts and then Thranduil’s arms are over them both, pulling them towards him as though they’re life buoys and he’s out on open sea.

“Sssh.” Thranduil mumbles. He hasn’t even opened his eyes. “Shhh.”

Tilda giggles and kisses both their noses. Bard and Thranduil smile.

 

 

 

 

 

_You had an amazing life._

_It wasn’t all rainbows and lollipops, Chief._

_Still. It was pretty nice._

_I guess that’s a fair assumption._

The scene shifts finally. Thranduil’s studio on the topmost level of the house. It takes a moment before Bard’s eyes adjust, given the amount of sunlight in the room. Dozens of Thranduil’s paintings are lining the walls, although Bard knows it’s only a fraction of what he’s actually painted in his lifetime. There’s a large one near the window, three-paneled and yet unfinished. Bard winces when he sees it.

_What is it?_

Bard almost touches the painting. There’s a coating of dust on it, and it makes his throat tighten. It’s a scene of a beautiful meadow surrounded by mountains, overlooking a house on a lake. In the first panel is Thranduil himself, sitting on the grass with his back turned, facing the water. In the middle, a beautiful wood-and-glass villa, surrounded by honeysuckle and lavender, and where two small figures are seated on the dock. The third panel is still blank, and a part of Bard wishes it would stay so. He answers the obvious question before it comes.

_We were painting this together. Well, he was painting it. I was throwing some ideas around and he’d consider it and decide whether or not to paint it in. The therapist suggested it, as a form of healing. We decided that this would be the place we’d meet the kids in again._

_Where are you in that painting?_

_We weren’t finished discussing it yet._

He realizes belatedly that Thranduil is actually in the room. He’s hunched over the drafting table scribbling furiously, hair falling messily into his eyes. His face is paler than before and the beginnings of a beard are evident on his chin and jawline. A half-smoked cigarette hangs from his lips and there’s a tumbler of whisky within reach of his hand. A full ashtray next to the tumbler tells Bard Thranduil’s been at it a while, and although he’s not one for condoning his husband’s bad habits, he can’t say he can’t blame him.

_Jesus…_

He takes the spot behind Thranduil, peering over his right shoulder. The large sheet of paper in front of him is ashy with charcoal scribbles of shadowy figures, skulls, and dark whirling vortexes. The pads of Thranduil’s fingers and his palms are black with soot, but he doesn’t seem to care for the mess. He looks thoroughly absorbed in what he’s doing but in a manic-obsessive way, something Bard has never seen before.

Bard says his husband’s name instinctively, even reaches out to clasp his hands in his just to still him. Assess. Breathe. No sooner does he shout Thranduil’s name however does the other suddenly stop, looking shocked. Bard freezes, waits for his husband to acknowledge him, but Thranduil only ends up pulling at the sheet of paper and ripping it off the table.

“Ugh,” Thranduil says, his voice hoarse. He takes a long drag from the cigarette, places it on the ashtray, then shakes his head in a quick, violent way. He sniffs then reaches for the whisky, gulps it down in one long pull. Bard aches just looking at his husband. Thranduil has always been thin, but his shoulders are broad like a swimmer’s and years of running on trails as exercise have made him quite fit. Now he sits hunched over with his chin nearly to his chest, his clothes looking as though they’re meant for another person.

Bard moves closer, intent on trying again.

_Bard, don’t._

_I just need to tell him that I’m still here._

_It won’t help him!_  
  
Bard is crouched down now so his mouth is right next to Thranduil’s ear, despite him knowing Thranduil won’t hear him physically. He can almost catch a whiff of his husband’s scent: a musky, spicy, heady mix that always reminds him of hot, steaming jungles and feral beasts. He brought it up to Thranduil once, had described it to him as “how Sher Kahn would have probably smelled as a human” and although his husband had laughed for days, Thranduil made sure he always wore it.

_Thran, I’m here. I’m here, love. Can you hear me?_

Thranduil doesn’t react. He’s started scribbling again on the piece of paper. Bard doesn’t mind; he’s had enough one-sided conversations with his husband to know that all he needs to keep up is persistence in order to be noticed.

_I’m here, love, I’m right beside you. Look to your right. Can you feel me? I’m trying to touch you. Can you feel it?_

He attempts to make the air move but he seems to be part of the air himself. It’s as though he’s made of light and feathers.

_To your right, babe. Look to your right._

This time, Thranduil does glance right, although he seems perturbed when he does so.

“I’m going fucking crazy,” Bard hears him mutter to himself. He gives his head a shake again then looks back down at the sheet of paper in front of him. Bard is not about to give up; his entire being is tingling with anticipation.  

_Thran! Thran, you’re not crazy. I love you and I’m still here and oh—please listen to me!_

This time, Thranduil does seem to be listening. Bard sees as his husband tenses, his muscles going taut like an animal coiled to spring. He can hear his heartbeat thrumming steadily against his chest, booming like a war drum, then the deliberately slow breaths as Thranduil listens more intently to his surroundings, his palms flat on the surface of the drafting table.

_That’s it, love. I know you’re thinking of me. Please keep thinking of me._

Thranduil licks his lips, gulps so hard his Adam’s Apple bobs up and down then up again like a lever, the skin around it shivering. Bard knows he’s heard somehow.

_Keep with me now. Come on, it’s the two of us again. Always the two of us._

The charcoal stick finds its way pinched between Thranduil’s fingers again. Bard leans closer, his lips nearly touching the pink shell that is his husband’s ear.

_Write it down, love. Write it. It’s Bard._

The charcoal scratches the paper. Thranduil shuts his eyes, as though fearful of what he might see. Bard watches as I-T-S-B-R-D appears, the writing nearly illegible, but there. He very nearly cries out of relief.

_I’m still here. I still exist. I still exist._

I-S-T-L-E-X-S-T

On the last letter, the charcoal drags down to the end of the paper until the stick breaks into two. Thranduil’s eyes snap open, his chest heaving as though he was held down underwater. There are tear tracks on his cheeks and he refuses to look at the paper.

_C’mon, Thran. Read it. Read it please—_

His words are broken off when Thranduil suddenly lets out an anguished roar and rips the paper off of the table before he can get a chance to look at the words. He crumples it up and flings it to the other side of the room. He covers his face in his hands, shuddering as sobs rack his body. Bard is simultaneously stunned and distressed at his husband’s reaction. Thranduil is gulping in air as though he can’t get enough.

“No, please,” Thranduil is saying. “Please.”

_Thran, I’m here, please…_

“NO!” This time, Thranduil sweeps a long arm over the contents of the desk, sending ashtray and tumbler flying through the open space and landing every which way, the thick glass shattering upon impact with the wooden floor.  He lets out another cry and gets another object within reach: a bison skull made from plaster Bard had gotten him as a gag gift in their early years, held in place by a metal rod over a cement base. He raises the item over his head and smashes it to the floor, splitting the sculpture and scattering fragments of it across the beams. After, all his strength seems to leave him and he falls to his knees amongst the mess, clutching his head in his hands.

“No,” Thranduil whispers, “no no no no.”

Bard feels a tug on him, more insistent this time. He doesn’t budge.

_This can’t be real._

_It is, Bard. It is very real. He’s real and you’re real. But you two are in two very different places now. You cannot affect him now without hurting him._

_When will it end?_

_When you want it to._

There’s a thundering up the steps and in seconds, both Eowyn and Faramir burst through the door, both significantly paling at the sight of Thranduil inconsolable on the floor. Bard watches as Eowyn quickly gathers him in her arms, and Faramir quickly moves to gather the glass shards by the shelves.

“I want them back so badly I want to die,” Thranduil moans. “I want to die, please let me die.”

Bard feels so ill that he would vomit if he could. This cannot be what he’s reduced his husband to.

_Do you see?_

_He doesn’t deserve this pain. How can I make it stop?_

_Thranduil has to make his own choices. You have to make your own. What’s it going to be?_

His companion seems a bit clearer now. Already, Bard can see a pair of eyes, sharp and focused on him as it waits for his answer. He feels entirely hollow, and he’s so tired. He spares Thranduil one last look. Both Faramir and Eowyn have enveloped him now, two pairs of arms encircling him as though to keep him together as he’s breaking apart. He wishes he could do the same, but knows by now that even if he could, he shouldn’t.

_Goodbye, love. I’m so sorry._

The scene fades like smoke, and Bard closes his eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I did borrow some lines from the movie, especially when Bard tries to communicate with Thran in the studio. 
> 
> Thanks for those who've read and commented so far! I PROMISE IT WILL GET BETTER. :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life on the Other Side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I'm sorry this is so short, but this is like a filler chapter, something that _had_ to be written to set the stage for other things. Next chapter should have more Thranduil. He was supposed to be here but I just couldn't make him any sadder than how I know he already is.

What the Ultimate End feels like is this:

There is no white light, no heavenly choirs singing. What it feels like is hurtling through a great void while standing very still as your memories flash by you, important events sticking out like a Best Of… reel.

In Bard’s case, he sees himself as a child only briefly: hiding underneath the bed with his older brother and sister, giggling at each other with their cheeks pressed against the floorboards; his father holding him by the armpits and whirling him around in a circle in their kitchen; the scent of his mother’s wild lavender soap and the feel of her pearls against his fingers; his temperamental but faithful dog, Smaug, who managed to make it until his high school graduation.

He isn’t surprised that the bulk of the memories are mostly from the last 12 years: Tilda’s tiny pink feet; huddling in coats and boots in the dense San Francisco fog; the first time Legolas calls him ‘Da’; watching lightning storms through the large windows in Aragorn and Arwen’s house; Christmases in Disneyland; the warmth of Thranduil’s hand in his…

Before it ends, he hears his last few seconds on Earth. An ear-splitting explosion, children crying, the sound of cloth ripping, bones breaking, and then, clear as a bell:

_I love you._

_(I love you too.)_

 

Bard wakes with a jolt, gasping for breath.

“Easy there. Take it easy, Bard.”

Strong hands grip his shoulders, keeping him from snapping shut on himself. Hands? Shoulders? When did the world start getting physical again? He opens his eyes and realizes someone is there with him, crouched down by his side. His companion, only he isn’t so blurry anymore. He quickly realizes why the presence that had kept him company felt so familiar all along.

“Elrond!” Bard exclaims. His former professor doesn’t look a day over 40, despite having already been 59 when he passed, just when Bard was finishing his residency.

“Took you long enough,” Elrond smiles, his forget-me-not eyes as kind as Bard remembers. His sandy hair falls across his forehead, and he’s wearing a thick oatmeal-colored cable-knit over cords. He looks equally boyish and soulful, and it’s the most relaxed Bard has ever seen him. “You didn’t recognize me any earlier, the way I was already telling you what to do?”

Bard hugs him, long and hard. He’s missed Elrond, one of the few good teachers and friends he’s had that always reminded him how much being a doctor is worth it, despite the endless pain and tears. Elrond hugs him with the same enthusiasm. When they finally extricate themselves from each other’s hold, his former professor cups his face in his hands, looking him over as if memorizing every detail.

“You’ve gotten older,” Elrond grins. “Wiser too, perhaps?”

“One would think, Chief,” Bard returns good-naturedly.

He starts taking stock: he feels more solid now, more _there._ He holds his hands up to his face and clenches them into fists. He touches his nose, lips, knees, hair. He’s wearing the same navy sweater and grey jeans he died in, although it’s no longer covered in soot and grime. Elrond watches him, looking amused.

“All there?”

“Feels like it.”

Bard then looks for the first time at his surroundings. He’s sitting in the middle of a large, lush meadow. Above him, the sky is the shade of a dusky persimmon, before shifting into the color of lemon chiffon. All around him, a soft, cool breeze is blowing, the type of weather he associates with early spring. Bard leans back on his hands, and is surprised when the ground beneath his palms give way with a loud squelching sound. He brings his hands up; they’re covered in thick, bright paint.

“What--?” He feels thoroughly confused. Elrond is grinning.

“This is your Heaven, Bard. Don’t you recognize it?”

Bard gets to his feet, feeling as the ground beneath his shoes sinks under his weight. Everything he’s seeing apart from him and Elrond, he realizes, is made of paint. He leans towards a nearby bluebell, closing his fist around it deliberately, and yelps when the flower gives way and vibrant indigo paint oozes down his wrist. He runs his fingers over the long fragrant grass, feeling the blades tickling his skin before pulling a clump up: almost instantly, emerald-green acrylic melts into the blue on his palm.

And he knows…he _knows_ this place.

He lifts his head once more, scans the beautiful valley he’s sitting in. His heart quickens its pace when he spots the large, silvery lake nestled in the bowl, and at the edge of the dock, a wood-and-glass cabin, a wispy trail of smoke curling up from the stone chimney. The edges of everything shimmer under the light, soft and smudged, like…like…

“The painting!” he exclaims. He suddenly feels giddy and off-kilter. “I’m in…a painting! Our painting!”

“Technically,” Elrond is suddenly at his side, “you made your Heaven into a likeness of your and Thranduil’s painting.”

Bard runs a hand through his hair, uncaring if he gets paint on it or not. “How is this…how is this possible?” He gestures towards the swirling sky, now the color of a light jade. A large great blue heron is frozen overhead, its massive wings spread out in mid-flight. Its breast is comprised of rough brushstrokes in several shades of white. “Thranduil didn’t paint that, I’m sure of it.”

“This goes beyond his painting now. You’re still creating it, with your imagination, your feelings, your emotions, your memories.” Elrond explains. The cuffs of his pants are drenched in vibrant colors, as if he’s waded through a rainbow. “When we arrive, we all unconsciously create a Heaven, something we’re very attached to. You made yours with _real_ paint.” Elrond tilts his chin towards the sunlight. “To be honest, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

It certainly is a sight to behold. He can see the snow-capped mountains in the distance, the broad brushstrokes comprising it in shades of lilac and plum, and ringed with thick white clouds. There are rolling hills as far as the eye can see, the flowers dotting it in a cacophony of vivid colors, all surrounded by glinting viridian grass. Bard has never cared to learn the more complicated names of colors but somehow they pop into his mind all the same: scarlet, rust, goldenrod, saffron, sapphire, fuchsia, teal. The lake shimmers with dabs of Chinese White, reflecting the sky as it shifts from one shade after the other.

Bard points at the heron.

“Why won’t it move?”

“It’ll move when you want it to.”

Bard looks back at the bird, and then with the slightest nudge of his thoughts, sends it swooping through the cotton-candy-colored sky. He whoops as he makes the heron do loop-de-loops and has it skim over the water, the edge of its wings trailing along the surface.

“WOOHOO!” he shouts as the bird utters a loud hoarse squawk as it flies past. Elrond grimaces at the sound.

“Charming,” he says, pulling a face. Seconds later, a large amount of technicolor bird poo splatters squarely on his head, globs of it dripping thickly down his sweater. Beneath the mess, Elrond gives Bard a murderous glare that would frighten a lesser man, but Bard just laughs and laughs.

“Oh, I’ve wanted to do that for years,” he says, thoroughly enjoying himself. He stops guffawing immediately however when a larger blob lands halfway between his head and shoulders, his open mouth catching a significant amount of the mess. Elrond grins at him.

“Can’t let you have all the fun, can I?” the older man says.

Overhead, the heron gives another cry, making the leaves in the trees tremble.

 

 

 

 

_It’s 2:16 AM and Bard is awake. He is, in fact, in the CVS on East 34 th Street, on one of those nights after a week at the hospital that feels like he’s gone to war and back again, and he feels like there’s blood on his hands so thick he can’t wash them off. He’s wandering the aisles for distraction, feeling as restless as the city itself._

_He’s in the candy bar section looking for something that will help tide him over his next shift when he hears the door jangle open. The electronic hum of lights is suddenly interrupted by the low mewling of an unhappy baby, then the soothing shushing of its parent. Bard keeps his eyes down, too exhausted to acknowledge another human being, let alone another child and his parent after the week he’s had, but when the whimpering finds its way into the same aisle where he is, Bard can’t help but look up._

_An impossibly tall man in a thin, paint-splattered shirt and torn jeans gives him an apologetic look the second their eyes meet. Bard would think the stranger homeless if not for the expensive baby carrier on his chest where the infant in question is strapped in, and the almost imperious air emanating off of him. Somehow, Bard manages a smile. Something about early mornings leaves him feeling particularly vulnerable and hungry for human contact, some form of acknowledgement that he’s not alone in struggling in this impossible world._

_“Colicky?” he asks, motioning towards the baby._

_“Just fussy.” Surprisingly, the stranger smiles back, and Bard feels as if he’s been let in on a secret. There are smudges of paint on his ears, his chin, the hollow of his throat, but he somehow makes it look as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. When Bard realizes he’s looked too long, he quickly averts his eyes, concentrating instead on the overstocked shelves._

_“He never wants me to put him down, and he always wants me to be on the move. I lucked out today because he slept through a lot of the day so I could work, but now I have to restock.” Bard looks up again; the stranger has gotten a handful of Heath bars and has dumped them unceremoniously into a basket. He motions towards Bard. “Hard day?”_

_Bard looks down at the large bag of Reese’s Pieces and several boxes of Swedish Fish in his hand. “You could say that.”_

_“Doctor then?”_

_“How can you tell?” Bard frowns. The stranger gives a low, amused laugh, and something in Bard clicks awake._

_“You’re still wearing your scrubs, Dr. Bowman.”_

_“Ah.”_

_He feels overly warm, and perhaps a little foolish, but before he can say anything else, the stranger is turning to leave. The baby has grown quiet, now nestled comfortably against his father’s chest._

_“Try white noise,” he blurts out before he can stop himself. He feels like this moment is important, although he doesn’t know why. The man turns back towards him._  
  
“Pardon?”

_His breath seems to catch in his lungs, but thankfully his tongue is on automatic._

_“White noise. Like a vacuum cleaner, or an aquarium. If you have one. Some babies like that. Maybe yours would…I mean, in case it would help.”_

_“Okay.”_

_The stranger smiles, and suddenly, strangely, Bard doesn’t feel so doomed._

 

 

 

 

“Memory?” Elrond’s voice cuts through his thoughts, and Bard is quickly and abruptly brought back to…the present? Does the concept of time even exist in this place?

Bard meets the older man’s eyes. He feels as though he’s been kicked in the chest.

“Perhaps,” he says, feeling entirely too raw. Elrond seems to understand. They’re sitting atop a grassy knoll overlooking the valley, where the paint is firm enough to not let them sink through. They watch the sky as it changes; it’s now a watercolor wash of soft peach with streaks of gray, as though for an early sunset. All around them the air stirs, bringing with it the scent of a spring rain and a young forest.

“It’s normal, especially when you’ve just arrived. You’re still firmly attached to What Was and What Has Been Left Behind. It’s never an easy break.”

“What, like a fracture?” Bard says, although he agrees it certainly feels like it, as though something has broken and splintered and he will never be whole again. Elrond nods.

“Exactly like a fracture. But, like all things, it will heal in time.”

Somehow, Bard feels contempt at this.

“Time…does it even exist? Am I even here? How is all this even real?” He has never been an overtly religious man but has always tried to keep an open mind. Now that he’s confronted with the reality of an Afterlife, he’s finding that the disappearance of concepts he’s always held true, like time and physical space, are harder for him to accept. “How are you and I here? Did we…float? Are we still made of atoms and molecules?”

Elrond gives him a look reflecting utmost patience, their old roles of professor and student shifting back into place. “Of course not, Bard. If you were you’d be subject to decay, and we’re beyond all that. This,” he reaches for Bard’s arm, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, “is real because you want it to be. All of this is a product of thought and will. You’re comfortable having a body, and to be honest, most of us are. But you’re not constricted to it.”

Bard blinks. He understands so easily, instinctively even, as if the knowledge has always been there and it’s just been unlocked. It doesn’t sit that well with him. He expects confusion, but it’s the absence of it that instigates it.

“Don’t overthink it,” Elrond tells him gently. “Give yourself time.”

“But that doesn’t even exist here!” Bard says, unable to hold back the bite in his tone. He doesn’t know why he feels so wound up. He wants to run or punch something. He wants to scream and yell. He wants…

“You miss your husband.”

At this, Bard feels a split second of respite from his restlessness.

_Yes, yes, a million times yes._

“That obvious huh?” Bard lowers his gaze to his hand where his wedding ring is still on his finger. It’s an illusion, he knows, as Thranduil has kept his ring and wears it on a chain around his neck.

“It’s a normal reaction.” Elrond nods. His voice is calm and detached, almost as if he’s informing him of a symptom to an illness. He turns to Bard, and where Bard expects to see disinterest is a deep sympathy. The desire to grab his former professor by the shoulders to shake him disappears. “I know. Of course I know.”

“Your wife,” Bard says, remembering how Elrond had been a widow for many years before passing away himself. “Is she…is she here?”

The older man nods, his smile small and secret. “Yes, of course. ‘Here’ is big enough for everyone to get their own space. She is here, as well as many others.”

“And…God?”

Elrond gives him a funny look, as though he were a child asking an obvious question. “He’s everywhere here. In the birdsong and the soft wind, in the love you feel for your husband.”

“And…He knows I’m here?”

“Of course. He knows everyone who’s here.”

“That’s good.”

Bard thinks of his children at that moment, but the thought that they are warm and safe _somewhere_ in this vast, infinite place puts him at ease. He need not worry for them, and this thought brings him back to Thranduil who is still on Earth and all alone.

“If this is…Heaven…” the name is still hard for Bard to say, “…is it possible to look down on…on the people you left behind?”

He is surprised when Elrond tells him in response, “Yes and no.”

“Why not?”  
  
Elrond puts a hand on his arm. “For you, not right now. The time will come when you will be able to, but at the moment, you’re still in transition. It is too raw and new and it will end up being more obstructive than anything. Do you remember what happened when you tried to reach out to your husband?”

A knot forms in Bard’s stomach as he remembers Thranduil’s anguish that _he_ caused. He doesn’t understand; if this is Heaven, why does he still feel so lost? Why is there still sadness? Where is the peace he was told of, the everlasting joy he was promised?

He doesn’t understand how he can have all these things without Thranduil. Perhaps he doesn’t even deserve to be here at all.

“I’m tired,” he says. There is a weariness in his bones that weigh on him like stones. He presses his palms against his eyes and wishes to sleep for a thousand years.

“Just relax and close your eyes.” Elrond pats his knee. His hand feels small and warm, almost like a child offering comfort. Bard obliges him, leaning back on his elbows before stretching out on the grass. He doesn’t care whether or not he ends up sleeping in this painted meadow. He feels stretched thin and hollow and oh-so-very tired. He only wishes to be where Thranduil is, although he knows that is no longer a possibility, so he wishes for the next best thing: to wake only after enough time has passed so that perhaps, when he opens his eyes once more, his husband’s face will be the first thing he sees.

 _That,_ Bard thinks, happiness blooming in his chest like a flower in spring, _is heaven._

The universe fades, and Bard sleeps.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thranduil and Bard have to deal with their grief on their separate planes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been sitting in my laptop for so long, unfinished. I finally hammered out the rest of it. Hope you like it! We finally get to see Thran's POV here.

On Earth, It has been four weeks and four days since Bard’s death. Thranduil notes the passing of time with each dawn and dusk. He doesn’t look at clocks anymore.  
  
He wakes with a shudder, his hands reaching out for something far beyond his grasp. When they grip empty air, the last vestiges of his dream vanish into the aether, the memory of Bard’s kind smile, first shared to him in the candy bar aisle at a CVS one dreary early morning, dissipating like smoke. He hasn’t thought, let alone dreamt, of his and Bard’s very first meeting in a long, long time; recalling it now makes his stomach churn and his heart ache so much he fears he will crumble from sorrow. He wonders how long he will have to endure this, of random memories being unlocked only to serve as dreams to haunt him as ghosts do. He’s positive that if the dreams will not be enough to do him in, then waking to an empty house, where there was once warmth, light, and laughter, most definitely will.  
  
Thranduil involuntarily shivers. The house is cold and dark, the only illumination in it the weak ashy light of a pre-winter’s dawn filtering in through the windows. It’s mid-November and he hasn’t turned the heating back on. Eowyn and Faramir left him to his own devices a couple of days ago, after having already overstayed for two weeks. Eowyn had threatened to call him every day, and so far has been good on her word. They’ve left the house in as good a running condition as it can possibly get without impeding too much on his personal space: the rooms have been scrubbed, vacuumed, and swept, the blinds and curtains drawn to let the sun in, and the cupboards are full of food, although Thranduil has barely touched them.  
  
Despite his promise to his friends, since Eowyn and Faramir’s departure he’s been curled up on the living room couch with one of the spare blankets. He sleeps most hours, waking long enough to take a hot shower, change, then lie back down again. It’s too much like the days and weeks following the children’s deaths, when even Bard was unreachable, having retreated to his own shell, and they had treated each other like passing ships in the night. The only difference this time is no matter how much Thranduil wants him to be, Bard is no longer just in the next room or a phone call away.  
  
Bard is nowhere. The children are nowhere. If someone were to ask Thranduil if he thinks Heaven is real, he wouldn’t know, but Hell definitely is. Hell is in their tomb of a house where he is the resident specter, held together only by memories and cigarette smoke.  
  
He takes a deep breath, his lungs juddering as they fill and stretch against his ribs. His fingers grip the sides of the couch, trying to center himself and fight the dizziness threatening to push him back against the cushions. He doesn’t cry anymore; he’s out of tears. On most days he just feels exhausted and hollow, like somebody’s scraped out his insides and he’s only been left with the barest minimum to keep running. It’s a terrible existence, and he wants nothing more than to stop and rest.  
  
This day however, feels a tiny bit different from the rest. Somewhere deep inside of him, despite the seemingly never-ending hopelessness, Thranduil feels the smallest flicker of his creativity come to life, like the last few embers of a dying flame. The strange unstoppable desire to create something is slowly pooling in his stomach and spreading to his limbs, making his fingers itch for a charcoal stick. He’s bewildered by it; he hasn’t gone up to the studio since…that incident when he had a minor breakdown, and it had left him with no desire to go back. This time, however, his studio is beckoning to him like a siren’s call, and there’s a single piece of work Thranduil is feeling fixated on.  
  
The painting, _their_ painting. For some strange inexplicable reason, he now wants to finish it.  
  
It’s so random it’s absurd, but Thranduil has never been one to deny his artistic instincts. Slowly, he gets up, bracing himself against the couch. He’s lightheaded and nauseous, but that could be the small fact of him not having eaten anything the past thirty-six hours except for a couple of bites of granola. The feeling of getting to the studio and sitting down in front of the painting is getting stronger now, the embers having grown into a low-burning fire, the flames fanned by the attention he’s deigned to give it. He’s bewildered, yet trusting of the instinct. For the first time in weeks something is stirring inside of him, something that, though unexpected, is familiar, and he’s not one to let it go.   
  
“All right,” he mutters to no one in particular, although it feels as though someone, somewhere is listening. “All right, all right.”  
  
He wraps himself up in Bard’s dressing gown. It has long lost his husband’s scent but still feels warm and familiar, the cloth worn in some places where Bard has rubbed it smooth out of habit. His hands tremble as he brushes his hair back and takes a deep breath.  
  
The fire in him flickers, but holds fast, the flame ever stubborn as his instincts tend to be. At that moment, it’s the most Thranduil needs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

In Heaven, Bard wakes in a quiet room surrounded by glass windows.  
  
The absence of the concept of time or bodily needs confuses him greatly, and he nearly falls off of the daybed he’s on as soon as he regains his senses. It feels to him as though only seconds have passed since he closed his eyes, and yet, at the same time, he knows it can’t have been. He feels no thirst or hunger, or any reason for him to go hunting for a bathroom. Possibly sensing his confusion, Elrond appears at the doorway, holding a tray. On it is a tea set made of what looks like solidified and molded paint.  
  
“Ah good,” The older man says. “You’re up.”  
  
“How…” Bard says, looking at his surroundings in confusion. It seems to be a large living space closely resembling Aragorn and Arwen’s modern cabin, although still very much like a Van Gogh painting. The interiors are all paint smears resembling light wood, smooth concrete, and shiny metal. The sunlight shimmers like melted butter as it bleeds through the large windows. “How did I get here?”  
  
Elrond shrugs. “You brought yourself here. I only followed you.”  
  
Bard doesn’t need anyone to tell him where he is. From his spot he can see the faraway meadow they had been sitting in, across the glistening lake. He just doesn’t understand how he’s suddenly gone from Point A to Point B without so much as lifting a finger.  
  
“Or maybe you do,” Elrond says in that knowing way of his. He’s sat down at a wrought metal table by the window, and has served himself some coffee from the teapot. For some reason, the paint doesn’t get on Elrond as much as it gets on Bard; the older man’s clothes are noticeably spotless, apart from the cuffs of his pants. “Maybe you do but you just are not accepting it.”  
  
“I teleported, basically?” Bard asks in disbelief. Elrond scrunches up his nose.  
  
“If you put it that simplistically, yes. However you and I know it’s more than what you’re trying to make of it.” He beckons for Bard to sit, and he obeys. He doesn’t touch the coffee Elrond offers him; the liquid is the color of murky paint water, although the scent is freshly ground Arabica and is making his saliva pool at the corners of his mouth.  
  
“There’s nothing to accept,” he very nearly growls, his patience wearing thin.  
  
“Oh?” his former teacher raises an eyebrow at him. “Well I certainly didn’t carry you anywhere. But that certainly will stay as paint water if you keep thinking it is.”  
  
“Are you telling me it isn’t?”  
  
Elrond lets out an impatient huff, one that Bard knows that had they still been professor-student, he’d have found himself with bedpan duty for the next shift.  
  
“Always were a skeptic.”  
  
“I’m a doctor, Chief,” Bard smiles at him wryly. “I was trained to be skeptical, until facts prove me otherwise.” He forgets for a moment about the liquid in the cup in front of him and takes a sip. A gush of strong hot coffee washes against his tongue and he widens his eyes in surprise. When he looks down, he’s startled to see the liquid as no longer the paint water he’d previously seen, but the dark mahogany liquid of his favorite blend.  
  
“What did I tell you?” Elrond says, his lips quirking up into a smirk.  
  
“What the _fu—”  
  
_ “LANGUAGE.”  
  
Bard ignores his former professor, choosing instead to study the cup he’s holding in his hands. It’s no longer made of the solidified paint it had been just moments before, but has now actually taken the shape of a white ceramic teacup rimmed with gold, and adorned with leafy filigree. He stares at it in disbelief.  
  
“I’ve been trying to tell you, Bard. The rules you grew up with don’t apply here.” Elrond has always had the patience of a saint. There’s even amusement coloring his tone as Bard taps at the teacup with his fingernail. “It’s not _magic._ It just is, as long as you allow your mind to be open. Go beyond the boundaries. You’re resisting it.”  
  
“I’m resisting it because it’s _impossible.”  
  
_ “Says the dead man who’s living in a painting and has just teleported himself from one area into the next. Face it, Bard.”  
  
But Bard can’t, and he knows why.  
  
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches as a sad, almost forlorn look, crosses Elrond’s features.  
  
“Accepting this is not you losing your husband.” Elrond’s voice is gentle. “Learning these new things does not mean you love him any less and are leaving him alone. Love traverses everything, even the supposed boundaries between Heaven and Earth.”  
  
Bard gives him a wry smile. “Now that rule, I can work with.”  
  
The older man stands, leaving his cup of coffee at the table. He hasn’t even taken a single sip of it, but Bard guesses it doesn’t really matter. No one has need of food or water, least of all a caffeine jolt. Not in this place.   
  
“Close your eyes,” Elrond instructs, and Bard does so almost immediately. His former professor’s palm is callused and cool against his skin, and smells mildly of lemon antiseptic. Bard remembers he had kept a bottle of it always in his left desk drawer in the hospital. It brings back a split-second rush of memories of him being a greenhorn intern under his mentor’s wing, and instantly he feels more vulnerable. He’s never been comfortable with the gray areas of life; he has always preferred absolutes. It doesn’t surprise him at all now that he’s resisting even in death.  
  
“Do you remember what I told you?”  
  
“About what?”  
  
“Why you have a body. Why you can touch, see, smell things here when in reality, you’ve left all that behind.”  
  
“…Yes,” Bard says, although it still doesn’t sit that well with him. They start walking, Elrond’s hand clasped in his.  
  
“Physical is the illusion. You are so much more than flesh and bone. You are thought, memory, emotion, feeling, conscience, consciousness. So is everyone else, your husband included, although his time has not yet come.”  
  
Bard gulps, not really liking the fact that Thranduil would eventually have to face the pain and loneliness of death as he did, but quickly grows to accept its inevitability.  
  
“Everyone finds their way to here eventually. Just be patient. For now, expand your mind, and everything else will follow.”  
  
Elrond is still leading him somewhere. When they stop, a cool breeze wafts in and brushes against Bard’s skin. He smells pine, cedar, honeysuckle, earth.  It smells of home and he nearly weeps.  
  
Elrond’s hand drops. “Open your eyes.”  
  
Bard does, and he gasps.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Galadriel has come for their second meeting, although she looks distinctly unhappy to be there. Thranduil does not blame her. She’s a friend of the family met through her long winding friendship with Gandalf but has long before openly stated she takes no pleasure in her job whenever it comes to seeing to people she personally knows; in fact, she’s openly admitted having long avoided it. If anything, he believes she’s only there to annoy him enough to help keep him alive. Nobody else has been able to do the job as well so far.  
  
Thranduil casts a weary eye at her from his spot, hunched over in one of the living room chairs. Only a few of the lights are on, and the shadows cast on Galadriel’s face give her dark angles and deep hollows.  
  
“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he says. He’s tired. He doesn’t want to play this game anymore.  
  
The older woman gives him a steely look. “I am aware,” she says, her voice smooth and eerily calm. “But you’ll find I do not engage in anything I don’t want to do.”  
  
He’s just finished his second glass of wine and his fingers itch to refill it, but Galadriel is watching and he doesn’t want her to take any more notes than he knows she already has.  
  
“Thranduil,” she says, and on her tongue his name sounds like a curse. “You are hurting more than anyone can ever know. But it is no excuse for you to waste away.”  
  
A bubble of irrational fury rises up in Thranduil’s chest. His hands are stained with paint and charcoal. He’s been working on his and Bard’s unfinished painting for days and days and he’s utterly spent. Noticing his movements, Galadriel raises a fine eyebrow.  
  
“You’ve been painting,” she states.  
  
“Yes,” Thranduil replies, although he can’t help the irritation creeping into his tone. Galadriel sits up a bit straighter, as though suddenly having found a sense of purpose in her visit.  
  
“Show me.”  
  
Initially, Thranduil wants to refuse. This is, after all, a personal project, one he feels that no other apart from him and Bard have a right in seeing. But a wave of listlessness washes over him again, turning his heart and veins into stone and ice. He shouldn’t care anymore. It really doesn’t matter.  
  
“It’s up in the studio.”  
  
“You’re not coming?”  
  
“I know what it looks like. I don’t need to see it again.”  
  
Galadriel is as headstrong as Gandalf, if not more so. There are no soft corners with her, only cold truth. She is not there to comfort; the one thing that makes her effective at her job is she’s the sole source of unpleasant things her patients need to hear, and miraculously, most of them listen. Thranduil constantly wonders why a career in law never appealed to her.  
  
He listens as Galadriel moves through his house like a shadow, traversing the dark corridors with no aid. She doesn’t turn on lights or open doors, just heads straight to her destination on the topmost floor. Thranduil pours himself another glass of wine in her absence and drinks it in three quick gulps. She’s back just as he sets the glass on the coffee table, the glass tabletop already coated in a minute layer of dust from neglect. The armchair creaks as she settles back down.  
  
Silence falls around them like snow.  
  
“I know someone,” Galadriel finally says. “I know someone who can help you more than I can.”  
  
Thranduil doesn’t look up. “I take it you didn’t like the painting.”  
  
“It’s remarkably beautiful. Haunting, but beautiful. In fact, it might be your best work yet.”  
  
A laugh escapes his throat. It’s soft, but genuine. The first one he’s uttered in weeks.  
  
“Bard will find that hilarious,” he says before he can stop himself. Galadriel’s expression changes only minutely, her pale pink lips slightly pressing together as though flinching. Thranduil hangs his head. “It’s unfinished. Bard was always so impatient about my paintings.”  
  
“Thranduil.” Galadriel says, and this time, her tone is quiet, like a mother speaking to a frightened child. “You are a dear friend to me. I would like to help, but you must allow it.”  
  
Thranduil wonders how she has come to this conclusion. Through her short journey across the house did she pick up on the abandoned hallways, the drawn curtains, the flipped picture frames? It’s also been weeks since he has looked at himself in the mirror. He doesn’t know just how different he looks now since he and the older woman glanced at each other across the pews during Bard’s wake. Galadriel had used to come to family dinners, Thanksgiving, birthday parties. She had been an inconstant yet still welcome presence in his and the children’s lives, and was one of the few people who could outright tell him to piss off if she wanted to, and he’d have no comment.  
  
How strange must it be for her, to see a man go from having everything to nothing in one fell swoop? How different must he seem to her now?  
  
A hand finds a way into his. Galadriel is on her knees in front of him, her pale blue eyes reflecting a deep insurmountable sorrow. She looks at once formidable and vulnerable, her veneer slowly crumbling in front of Thranduil’s eyes.  
  
“Celebrian,” she says, and the sound of the name must not be something she says often because it almost sounds foreign, almost revered. “Celebrian was her name. I lost my daughter when she was 9. Car accident, we were living in the East Coast then. My husband was driving.”  
  
Thranduil straightens. “And him…?”  
  
“Celeborn could never forgive himself for it. We separated after two years. I’ve not heard from him since.”  
  
Thranduil nods, understanding now. Gandalf, that sneaky bastard. “I’m sorry.”  
  
Galadriel shakes her head. “I know your pain, but I cannot help you deal with it. I wanted to try, but it’s too close to my heart and I….” Her voice drifts off, words stolen as slow, silent tears pool around her eyes and roll down her cheeks. She turns her face away but grips his hand more firmly, as though he is her only solace.  
  
Thranduil stays still, his chest getting tighter as the damp patch on his knees gets larger. Over the years he and Galadriel have barely shared a truly personal conversation with each other, and now they sit, clutching each other like lifelines: two once-parents and once-spouses bound together by the common tragedy of a shared grief.  
  
“I’m sorry,” Thranduil whispers. Galadriel doesn’t hear him.

 

 

 

 

  
 

Bard’s Heaven has changed.  
  
“How did this even happen?” he asks. He and Elrond are now walking through the dotted meadow beyond the cabin, the ground now firm beneath their feet, solid and formed of soil and stone rather than paint. Grass tickles the inside of palm, and the rich, strong scent of new earth fills his nostrils. When he pulls plants up, they come away in his fingers as petals and stems, sap and dirt staining his skin rather than acrylic. He can hear birds chirping, hidden in the tall trees, and the soft gurgle of a brook somewhere in the distance. Overhead, the sky is a creamy salmon with thin fingers of lavender.  
  
It’s still very much like the painting, but only in the sense that this place is something that can only be created in a dream.  
  
Elrond gives a throaty chuckle. “It’s precisely the fact that you _are_ dreaming it that it exists!”   
  
Bard makes a face. “Stop reading my thoughts, Chief.”  
  
“Oh, don’t be such a Grumpy Gus. I already told you you have a habit of screaming out your thoughts. Not exactly my fault I pick up on them.”  
  
Bard picks up a daisy by his feet, marveling at the velvety stem that bends against his fingers before tossing it into the air to be carried off by an errant wind. “Okay. So let me get this straight. The painting was…what then? An Inbetween? A security blanket?”  
  
The older man nods. “Think of it like a crutch. It was a halfway point between what you had been and what you can be. The fact that all of this is real now means you no longer need your painted world. It’s still technically your painting, but you’ve made it real. And it’s getting bigger as you explore it more.  
  
Bard says nothing, still feeling grossly incomplete. There is no Heaven without his husband by his side. The concept is entirely lost to him. He doesn’t know why that’s so hard to understand for everyone else. _Surely_ he can’t be the only one missing his spouse this badly when they die…  
  
“Bard, look.”  
  
Elrond’s voice has taken a strange tone, and Bard looks up, puzzled. His former mentor is gazing into the distance, his forehead furrowed. Following his gaze, Bard sees the expanse of horizon that stretches into rolling hills and dipping cliffs, but his eye is pulled towards a single object sitting on a lone grassy ridge.  
  
“What’s that?” he wonders out loud, squinting his eyes out of habit although he can see the thing quite clearly. Elrond turns to him, looking equally bewildered.  
  
“You didn’t know?”  
  
Bard gives the older man an incredulous look. “What are you talking about, Chief? I know _what_ it is, if that’s what you’re asking. _Why_ it’s there is a totally different thing altogether.”  
  
Elrond doesn’t say a word, merely touches his wrist with his fingers and all of a sudden, he and Bard are standing by the large drooping wisteria tree, with branches thick with blue, white, and purple blossoms that certainly did not come from any figment of Bard’s imagination.  
  
“This is new…” he murmurs, touching the dark knotted trunk of the tree, feeling the rough whorls in the bark against his skin.  
  
“You mean you didn’t put it in?” Elrond asks almost suspiciously.  
  
“No,” he says. It feels familiar though; it feels like home.  
  
“Are you sure?”  
  
Without a word, Bard turns and shifts his view, instinct telling him that he would find the villa by the lake with the dock to his right, then the grassy knoll where Thranduil is supposed to be further out. “It can’t be…” he murmurs, the sight before him confirming his suspicions.  
  
“It’s the painting isn’t it?”  
  
“He’s put the tree in,” Bard says, looking up at the tree again and suddenly feeling both elation and a deep profound loneliness. “This is the third panel of the painting. I’d never be able to put in anything this beautiful. Thranduil was the one with the eye for beauty.”  
  
Elrond looks stunned. “But that’s _impossible._ ”  
  
Bard shoots him a look. “Oh now something is impossible? What happened to ‘go beyond the boundaries’?”  
  
The older man looks at the tree up and down, his face open in awe. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I mean, they’ve _talked_ about it happening, but I’ve never…wow. _Soulmates._ ”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I’ve never really seen it happen before but it’s not a new concept. It’s just…rare.” Elrond touches the tree trunk himself, eventually closing his eyes and smiling gently. “I can feel him. His love has been centered in this work. Oh, he loves you very much indeed.”  
  
The pronouncement, although not something Bard doesn’t know, is unexpected, and the fissures in his heart seem to widen enough to cause him physical pain. He jerks his hand back and shoves them in his pockets. The wind picks up a bit and a handful of blossoms flutter through the air, dipping and swirling as they make their way across the sun-kissed valley. The sky above them has now gone a waxy yellow, as though a prelude to a summer storm.  
  
“What’s the matter?” Elrond asks, looking genuinely concerned. “It’s wonderful what you have.”  
  
“What is that exactly?”  
  
“You’re soulmates.” The older man says as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Mind you, I’ve only heard of this happening, and it’s amazing to finally witness one. It’s remarkable, really. He’s reaching you through your painting.”  
  
“I don’t _want_ a tree, Elrond. I want _him._ This isn’t…” Bard throws his hands up in frustration. “This isn’t relevant to me at all. Nothing makes sense.”  
  
“Be patient. The time will come.”  
  
“ _Time isn’t real here._ ” Bard feels very much like wanting to pick a fight. The tree…the very presence of Thranduil in his Heaven is nearly enough to move him to tears. “Please…I just can’t.”  
  
He goes down on his knees by the wisteria, his legs seemingly too weak to support him any longer. The ghost of his children’s’ laughter ring in his ears, and he can very nearly feel his husband’s strong, steady grasp around his waist. He doesn’t know how to do this, and he doesn’t _want_ to, if he’s being entirely honest. His gaze falls back to the cabin near the dock, and something in him snaps to attention.  
  
 _The children.  
  
_ “The children were supposed to be waiting at the dock.”  
  
“Beg pardon?”  
  
Bard turns to Elrond, who’s wearing a peculiar expression on his face. “Legolas and Tilda were supposed to be there.” He glances at the dock again but it’s empty as it’s always been. “That’s where we were supposed to meet them. Thranduil painted them there.”  
  
Elrond gives what seems to be a small sigh. “Although I’m not an expert in soulmates, I would think painting _people_ in is different from painting trees and plants and things in.”  
  
“You mean they’re not there?” The small hope that had been in Bard’s heart deflates. Elrond shakes his head.  
  
“This is your Heaven, Bard. It may not necessarily collide with your children’s. They have their own free will here, as do you.”  
  
“But I want to see them!” His voice very nearly breaks, but he doesn’t care. Does Heaven have no cell phones? Some sort of telepathic intercom? Everything is just so absurd. “What do I need to do to see my kids, Elrond?”  
  
The older man’s face is a careful mask. Bard feels the violent urge to punch it just to see if it would shatter.  
  
“You will see them. When you’re ready.”  
  
“What does that even mean?!”  
  
Elrond stays infuriatingly calm.  
  
“It means what it means, Bard. You’ll see them when you’re ready.”  
  
And then without another word, Elrond disappears from sight.  
  
  
  



End file.
